


cold dish

by bigdamnher0



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternative Title: Johnny Goes Undercover and Serves Revenge On A Literal Cold Dish, Established Relationship, Futuristic Elements, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mark Lee Doesn't Have A Good Time In This, Memory Loss, Mentions of Sex, Revenge, Runaway Gang Member Johnny Suh, Universe-typical Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24108544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigdamnher0/pseuds/bigdamnher0
Summary: Assembling the trap is easy, but only with practice. Today’s the day it finally bears fruit. With perfect timing, Johnny’s phone vibrates. He already knows what it says:Ready to poison a rat?😈Leave a bad crowd, get your lover involved, chase the tail of sweet, sweet revenge. It's a love story, promise.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Comments: 22
Kudos: 117





	cold dish

**Author's Note:**

> ola!! just a reminder to please heed the tags - the violence is non-graphic, but it's still... well, there (and it also involves the main pair). hope you enjoy this trippy fever dream of a fic!

_🐟_

Johnny’s day begins at 0700 hours, to a disoriented city still deciding whether to be asleep or awake. It’s not everyday a guy gets this close to Valhalla, the crowning jewel of luxury hotels in all of NeoSeoul, so he gives himself a minute to bask in all its euphoric morning glory. The hundred-story behemoth stirs demurely, its obsidian spires shying from the clouds. Sprinklers dance outside the gates. The lawn gleams a radioactive green. If he stays a second longer he’ll be late, so Johnny pulls his cap down low, crosses the street, doesn’t glance at anyone or anything except at the security bot that trills as he twists the backdoor knob open— _Identification please_ —and a non-human hologram ushers him close. Johnny stands still enough for it to execute a routine retina scan. 

_Welcome, Sam Sato_ , it drones, the lock clicks open, and Johnny— _Sam,_ rather—has entered the building, baby.

He sends a quick thank you to Yangyang, even if the damn kid charged him four monthly paychecks for the biocode. 

Inside, down two flights of stairs, the hallway opens into the kitchen. Two staff are already inside, muscling cuts of meat into the freezer. Their head chef, a burly man with a wispy beard, checks off boxes on his inventory board. He looks up from a box of fruit and barks, “Fucking _finally_ , fish boy.”

Johnny pauses, his first mistake; stupid bilingual Asian brain working overtime, wondering: _is this new slang?_ Head chef’s brow furrows. “Poissonier, yes? You’re our guy? Rachel called—“

“Yes.” Johnny takes off his cap. “That's me, sir.”

“Then why the fuck you still gawking there, then? Get inside, jesus.” Johnny hurries to his station, beside a spherical fish tank brimming with all the world’s known species. This is the biggest fucking kitchen Johnny has ever seen. It gleams and bustles like a mechanical heart. Too bad Prashant, their OG fish boy, is too busy having an intimate date with his toilet bowl to witness tonight’s very special occasion. 

“You _do_ know today’s menu, right?” Head chef is testing him. In his pocket, his phone vibrates. “I don’t know which gutter Rachel picked you up from, but I hope to god you can cook as well as the rest of my shit crew.”

_Shit crew_ in question eyes him down as Johnny inspects his tools. “Uh, I don’t know about cooking, but I _do_ know how to use one of these—“ he flashes a curved knife out of its holster, tosses it up and snatches the handle before it can plunge into the table. Little party trick. A smirk ripples through head chef’s face; _good_ , because that was a gamble.

“Great, it’s the fucking circus. I need you on the stock in five,” he says, convinced _Sam Sato_ won’t be burning his kitchen to the ground any time soon, and finally returns to his fruit box. To the rest, he booms, “Treat tonight like the night of your lives, kids! I better see you sweating _blood_. I want you mopping that shit off the floor.”

The moment head chef’s back turns, Johnny slips his phone out and ducks down. Yuta’s text reads: _whey milkshake for breakfast. En route to StarMall_. Johnny smiles, replies: _thnks rachel_ , and begins sharpening his dullest knife. More room for dinner. 

_🐟_

_Here’s my dilemma—[static crackles]—every spider has its blind spot. For me, that’s always been you. You know this. The first time I saw you, Johnny… [sighs]… something inside me broke. Shattered. Into a million pieces. Skinny little street rat, with a lot of fight left—I saw myself in you, I suppose. My Johnny. My—what’s the word—my little Achilles’ heel…. And yet—[laughter; something shatters]—here we are. Where did you go, Johnny boy? After I built this empire for you? You think y—[static]—away from me? Oh Johnny… you know every man leaves roots, even in a concrete dung pile like Seoul. I’ll find you, I’ll dig down into the earth, and I’ll cut—[static escalates]_

🐟

Morning free-falls into early evening. By then Johnny’s hands have warmed up enough: Fat tuna. Pacific halibut. Wild blackfin, fresh from Valhalla’s bottomless aquarium. Whack, cut—out comes the spine—slice, plate, serve. He’s ready.

Valhalla, too, is prepared, even for surprise guests like Mr. Seo— _Father_ , for Johnny—soon to be the man who’ll purchase Valhalla and its chain of smaller love hotels with all the blackmail power harnessed from his _Alter Tech._ The air around him charges as he enters, disperses like feeble atoms with each exhale. His 500-part watch gleams, worth a satellite, apt for a man known for smuggling dreams into bodies. Even with the lovely Hallyu star Ms. Jiwoo by his arm, made more unearthly after her full-body Restructuration last week—an early birthday gift from Mr. Seo himself—fades into the carpet. Trailing after them is Mr. Seo’s rat-eyed assistant, looking pensive.

Still, Valhalla’s staff does not discriminate. Ten greets them by the entrance, leading the trio to their table with the best view as per the lady’s request— _I want to sit next to the fish, thank you very much_. Inside, a magic trick: Valhalla is always bigger than the outside. The ceiling bends to greet them. Chandeliers drip diamonds. Behind the massive spherical aquarium, the fish themselves shimmer as if to leap out the tank. Waving at a lionfish swimming close the glass, Jiwoo laughs. Her upgraded vocal chords release a sonic chirrup. 

Through the split-screen in Ten’s right eye, Johnny can see his father’s profile. It’s a rocky start—Ten blinks twice as much as Johnny, his attention split between each customer he passes—but he stabilizes, eventually, finding pockets of opportunity where he can cast his gaze at his guest without drawing attention. Already, Mr. Seo looks bored, but Johnny knows better. Knows he is already crunching numbers, weighing profits, counting down the weeks before all of Valhalla’s riches will be his. 

“Blackfin,” Mr. Seo's assistant observes, as they settle into their red plush seats. His gaze flicks through the chaotic jumble of fish formations like sorting a data sheet. “How curious.”

“You have a keen eye, sir,” Ten remarks. Johnny follows Ten’s gaze—a big squid he failed to catch in the kitchen earlier shimmies down into the main aquarium, floating above the tank like a dark cloud. Johnny still doesn’t know how the piping works. “Our blackfins are the soul of our aquarium. As with any careful ecosystem, we need the balance they provide. Are you ready to order?”

Instantly, Jiwoo jumps in and rattles away, as if this will be her last meal. Mr. Seo glances at his assistant. His fingers twitch

“Mr. Seo will have a glass of your best wine,” says Four-Eyed Assistant. Ten notes it down, then leaves with a bow.

Johnny hums, wrestling a catfish into his net. _Interesting_. 

🐟

_Name me one thing that I did not give you. Or teach you. You are more son to me than my real son, and you know this… you are my sword! I fucking made you! [Shots fire; glass and wood everywhere]… do you understand? Come back and give me the file, Johnny. You know business won’t do well without it. You know they’ll—[static]—way to take everything from me, from us, when they find out what’s in it. It’s been three days, son—I worry you’re really gone. But you won’t leave behind the people you care about, would you? I know you won’t. You’ve always been better than me that way. [The sound of a chair scraping the floor] Do you want to see him? He’s—[static]_

🐟

Irene’s rendition of La Sympathique is a spritzy dance, full of bubbles and cheer. As she finishes, the guests of Valhalla unwind, empty their wineglasses. The knots in Mr. Seo’s back untangle, and he lets Jiwoo press languid kisses up his neck, into his knuckles. “This is all so very romantic, darling… it would’ve been perfect had we left Choi behind,” she says, as if Assistant isn’t sitting right in front of them, observing the fish.

Onstage, Iren taps the mic. “I would like to welcome the presence of two very special people tonight—Mr. Seo and Ms. Jiwoo!”

Heady applause erupts. A few whistles. As proper for a man raised by social media, Mr. Seo presses a hand to his heart and stands, waving sheepishly, letting the praise roll off his shoulders. Chandelier light catches on his watch; people wince, blinded. Even the staff are clapping. All hail the neo-revolution. All hail the messiah of sex holograms and the booming tourism industry. Ten arrives and slides an antipasto appetizer into their table.

Through his eyes, Johnny watches his father return to his seat and reach for an olive. Something is off. 

“Table 9, ready for _entree,”_ Ten tells him at the counter. They talked about this, but still—Ten looks at him a beat too long, and it pulls at Johnny’s own throat. Johnny nods, walks to the fish tank, and catches his own reflection on the glass—dirty blonde hair, dark scruff, a bruise of brown eyes that are growing unhinged by the second. _Keep it together, Johnny,_ he can almost hear Ten say. _You waited twenty months for this._ Wordlessly, Ten drifts to serve other tables, and Johnny regrets not using a mind thread. 

This part’s easy: Johnny reaches down and grabs the puffer before its spiny shell can expand and puncture his hands. Into the chopping board, let the water seep out. Knife tip poised, off with the fins, then the skin. Turn it on its belly, find the poison sac—this one’s a level 50 for sure, toxicity level way beyond what daring connoisseurs would try for likes; Johnny’s fingers are numb already. Turn his wrist, like opening an envelope: inside, a pearly, pristine white fillet.

Assembling the trap is easy, but only with practice. Today’s the day it bears fruit. Johnny delivers the flawless sashimi platter on the counter, so perfect it would make goddesses weep. Unbidden, his own mouth waters.

Johnny winks at Ten as he passes the plate for inspection, like his hands aren’t shaking. Head chef shouts his head off— _yeah, don’t look too smug, you got fifty orders of it left and I want them exactly like this or it’s your neck on my fucking knife_ —and with perfect timing, Johnny’s phone vibrates. Without looking, Johnny knows what it says. 

_Ready to poison a rat?_ 😈

🐟

_Here, I promise—[a shuffle of hands, a muffled cry]—aw, don’t be like that. Come on, say hi to the camera, Markie, say hi—fuck, can anyone please fix his ropes—you’re all fucking useless—[sounds of a scuffle; a crack]…now, where was I—? Ah. I was about to say I’m starting to get the appeal. You didn’t tell me your friend was a Literature major. All these poems… I gather they’re about you, aren’t they? They’re quite beautiful—[a shuffle of paper]—this one’s called “Prodigal.” Apt for current events, isn’t it? Nearly wept, I did, swear to god—[white noise]—atching this right? I just thought up a game we can play. For every poem I finish reading, and you’re not here, I’ll—[static increases]. Fun, right? How about it, son? Or would you rather your friend read his own poems? Markie, what do you—[sound muffled]—open mic for our Johnny boy?_

🐟

This was Father’s first mistake; the hypocrite, falling for someone and letting his guard down, the way Johnny had. The same way, Mr. Seo will repent for it. Ten arrives like the dawn, smiling, and sets down a massive sashimi platter on table 9, to Jiwoo's high-pitched warbling. Mr. Seo claps. Alarm bells ring in the back of Johnny’s head, but he waits. Sets the bait. 

Ten’s probably thinking the same too, with the anxious way his gaze shifts—first Jiwoo, then Assistant, to Mr. Seo, food, empty glass, Mr. Seo again, staining his white napkin when he gorges on roe too quickly. Ten bows and leaves, and Johnny’s left staring at the view of the restaurant walkway.

_Come on_ , Johnny thinks. _One more_. He almost cuts his own fingers off, watching both the tip of his knife and Ten’s watchdog gaze that keeps flicking over another table, where a lanky man with a blue cap sits, chair angled to capture the periphery. _Fuck_. Can the cops be even more obvious?

“Is there anything else I can get you?” Ten asks their neighboring table. He’s buying time. “Napa Valley, yes, of course. A good choice, to wash down the cream.” 

Ten uncorks the wine bottle, but he’s looking at table 9; bless his soul. Johnny has the perfect view of his father feasting and his assistant separating his chopsticks—the scene out of place after not touching anything but his wineglass since the moment Ten sat them on his table. At this point, Johnny doesn’t bother holding back his grin—even if fellow cooks shoot him worried looks, because there he is, after many months, Father—the _real_ one, not the actor paid to wear his bioskin because if anything Father has always been a twitchy man, even more so with his newfound influence, expecting death at every turn—reaching for the perfect slice of pufferfish. He’s always had a soft spot for it—the strange, the dangerous, the othered. Maybe that was why he took Johnny in. Why Johnny was here, about to end it all.

Through Ten’s eyes, Mr. Seo dips the roll into soy sauce. Chews. Smiles.

Johnny feels electric.

_Got you._

🐟

✉️ 1 new voice message - 9 days ago

_Got you front row tickets, for my number one fan! [Laughter] No, I shouldn’t—it’s a really small dimsum place with a stage, okay, but a show’s a show, right? Thanks for agreeing to come. I’m calling because I’m craaaazy nervous, if you can’t tell. So, uh—see you tonight. Love you!_

✉️ 1 new voice message - 9 days ago

_Hyung, did you get lost? I sent you the directions… Sogong, neon fresh sign, Chenle’s obnoxious Supra’s parked across the street, you can’t miss it! Hurry up, okay? It’s gonna be weird performing my poem without the person I wrote it for. Call me back!_

✉️ 1 new voice message - 9 days ago

_Hey, Johnny, where are you? I got you dimsum and noodles, figured you’re hungry. Soup’s getting cold so… [sighs] call me when you get this, please?_

✉️ 1 new voice message - 7 days ago

_Hyung… if I upset you or anything, I’m really sorry. I’ll—[cars honking in the distance]—fix it, just tell me, okay? Just… please pick up. I’m worried. Love you._

✉️ 1 new voice message - 14 hours ago

_Johnny-hyung? [sobbing] A-are you there? Hyung—[muffled yelling; the door splinters, shots ricocheting]—please, they’re—someone’s—[line goes dead]_

🐟

“Our sous chef is a big fan," Ten announces, loud enough for the whole table to hear. “It’s his little boy’s birthday today, but I’m sure he’s more than happy to know he missed it to cook for _the one and only_ Ms. Jiwoo.”

Twenty emotions flicker through Jiwoo’s face in the span of three seconds. “Oh my! Well. Now we _must_ go and surprise him, don't we!” she cries. For the first time tonight, Mr. Seo is rendered speechless. He chances a look at his assistant, caught similarly off-guard.

Mr. Seo coughs. “Buttercup—“

“Just for a picture! Listen to me, dear, okay? It’s good press.” She stands, pulling him up by the elbow. One-sided argument over before it even began. Ten points them the way with a flat palm, and they’re off, leaving Assistant gawking at the table, alone. 

“Just straight ahead, boy?”

“Yes, sir, turn left at the end and we’ll be at the kitchen,” Ten answers, polite as ever. It's dark at this part of the hallway. Irene’s singing falls away like a dream upon waking.

Jiwoo pushes open the swing doors with both hands—

On the floor, all the chefs sit bundled by an electron rope, each of them gagged and tied to each other. _Sam Sato_ turns his head towards the intruder with mild interest.

“He—“ Before Jiwoo can scream, Ten presses the tip of his photon gun against her nape. 

“One sound, and I’ll fricassee your head off,” Ten hisses. “Fricassee. Photon gun… get it?” His eyes land on Sam— _Johnny_ —and he grins.

“I can tell you’ve been waiting all day to tell that joke.”

Ten shrugs. “They were pissing me off. Everyone, say hi to Johnny.”

Jiwoo’s eyes bulge. The expression is almost-comic on her engineered face. “Johnny?”

“Hello, noona.” Johnny waves, slipping off the table and looming at his full height. “You didn’t cry at my fake funeral. Didn’t even pretend. I’m kind of _hurt_.”

Jiwoo looks like she’s seen a ghost. Rightfully so. Beside her, Mr. Seo’s bio-actor senses an opening and tries to make run for it. Ten fires a blast by his feet without looking. He yelps, topples over, and brings an un-iced 5-tier cake with him to the floor. 

Head chef releases a string of profoundly creative expletives that Johnny makes out to mean: “What the _fuck_ is going on here, fish boy!” 

“I quit,” Johnny announces and dramatically throws down his apron. He pats Ten’s shoulder as he passes, exchanging wordless clues. “I guess I’m not cut out for kitchen life.”

“Buttercup?” Jiwoo pulls her hands away from Mr. Seo’s bleeding chin, which she’d been dabbing dry with her napkin. His bio-mask flickers, malfunctioning. “What’s—“

“Yeah, I suggest you look away,” Ten says, fingers loosening the Alter Tech chip burrowed into the doppelganger’s nape; Johnny slips a carving knife inside his hip and is gone. “You don’t wanna know who you’ve been _really_ kissing all night, do you?”

🐟

_Eight days, son. I’m starting to think you’re really dead. And I don’t like to think about that. [sighs] I need that file, son. We need it. The Seo empire needs it. Come home, okay? Help me out here, Markie—tell him to come home. Tell him you miss him. Don’t we? We miss you so much. Tell Johnny—[someone spits; a resounding slap] [object thuds to the floor]—fucking shitstain… fuck! Do you see what I’ve had to deal with? For your sake—[white noise]—turn off the camera—_

🐟

There’s a specific way you have to stand to see it—the flicker of the Alter Tech mask. Proof of its human origins, its need for routine upgrades, bug fixes. That it was a dream doomed to end, like all dreams do. If you stand in the right spot, hold it— _there_. You’ll glimpse it. A few seconds of the real skin beneath. _Every spider has a blindspot._ Johnny knows, because Father taught him himself. Johnny knows, because he’d been the first flight test for its potential. First to notice the burning wings beneath the gold trimmings.

Unfortunately, Father can see him too. “It’s you, isn’t it?” he says, in a stranger’s face.

Johnny smiles as he sinks in the seat across him. “Hello, Father.”

“So you’re really alive,” Father says. He looks around, as if to touch the air with his fingers. His trademark watch glints—the real one, a titanium wonder. A crooked grin crawls up his face. “You’ve set up my Tech here, too, haven’t you? That’s my boy.”

Inside this anti-sphere, no dreams can exist. Johnny and his father stare at each other, without the snakeskin.

“I’ve had some help,” Johnny concedes. “I’m surprised Valhalla doesn’t check if its staff really take their breaks in the break room. I’ve never been alone. You, on the other hand—“

Between one breath and Johnny’s next syllable, his father pulls out a gun and fires a photon blast into Johnny’s face. That is—it would’ve landed had there not been another to gun to blast it out his grip first. Father’s gun flies, ricochets off into the anti-sphere where it’s neutralized and drops into the carpet, useless. The barrier shimmers protectively around them, like a transparent cocoon. Beyond them Valhalla’s guests continue to dine, unperturbed.

“Come to see the show?” Johnny says by way of greeting. 

Doyoung’s gun is smoking. He glowers darkly, “Shut up,” and doesn’t train his gun away from Mr. Seo’s face, right between the eyes.

His father looks at Doyoung, then at Johnny. “A _Cleaner_? You’re buddy-buddy with _cops_ now? Oh, you’re breaking my heart, Johnny. First that poor, gutter-breed Canadian—“

Johnny smashes his elbow into his Father’s face. His nose gives with a sickening crack. He grabs him close, whispers, “You’re still not afraid, are you? You should be. You’re only human. I know you’ve been having nightmares about it—all these people who want you dead, more people than you can count. I still have your Tech. I know for a _fact_ —“ Without a beat, Johnny knocks the micro-knife from his father’s hands, tucked behind his tie; the attempt is almost pathetic—“that this is the only place you’ll ever go without your usual brigade. Your love of food has always been your weakness. It paralyzed you. You fed a starving street rat fifteen years ago because of it—and now you will die by his hand.”

🐟

_“This isn’t a magic trick, you know? It doesn’t work like your stupid Alter Tech. We can’t modify something good from—from a base like this—“_

_“A base like what? Say it.”_

_“Johnny, look—[A long-suffering sigh]—trauma like this… the body will remember it. No matter how deep I wipe him. It’s like asking me to do a bad paint job over a car with a blasted hood, the parts are all burned inside—“_

_“Do it. Just—whatever it takes. Do it.”_

“… _you know you have to face it eventually. But what do I know, right? I’m just a Cleaner_ —“

_“Please. Doyoung. You love him too.”_

_“….”_

🐟

Cross-legged on the floor, Mr. Seo observes his bleeding hand with detached calmness. “I knew you were too stubborn to die. Though, you had me in the last two months. My Johnny—dead,” Father laughs, like he’s recalling an old joke. 

“Maybe I am.” Johnny’s fingers itch for his knife. “Maybe I’m one of your new holograms. Who knows.”

“You butter me up,” says the man who tortured the love of Johnny’s life, left the body broken on the warehouse floor like an offering. “You know my Tech isn’t getting far as it is. Especially with you holding the necessary parts. Tell me: are you finally coming home?”

“Are you finally confessing to your crimes?”

Mr. Seo laughs. “Is that why you’re here? To torture me to submission? You and I are far too alike.” Father puts his bloodied thumb to his mouth thoughtfully. “Did you poison my meal? You know I’m immune to most everything.” Of course Johnny knows of his father's own enhancements; if he guts Mr. Seo right now, he'll find mechanical wires instead of real innards.

“Are you immune to the serum though?” Doyoung says, jamming a pen-needle into Mr. Seo’s fat neck from where he stands behind him. Blue veins spider up from the puncture wound. Johnny curses. Doyoung’s moving in faster than the plan; his eyes are liquid mania. He recites his script with equal vigor— _you are in violation of cyber terrorism, identity theft, prostitution, do you admit, do you admit, do you admit_ —“

“Doyoung—“

“— _do you admit to your crimes_ —“

“Doyoung—“  


“Shut the fuck up and be grateful I haven’t put a bullet into your head,” Doyoung spits, turning the setting of his gun from _Stun_ to _Dispatch_ and aiming the barrel under Mr. Seo’s ear. “I’ll get my admission—you can ruin his life after.” Johnny sighs, walks off and digs the chip out his own nape, wincing. His bio-mask is useless now. He picks up Jiwoo’s wineglass from table 9, observing the lipstick stain she left on the glass, and tries not to listen in as the serum works into his father’s bloodstream with rapid effect and loosens the truth on his tongue— _yes, server 127 is all me; yes, prolonged use of Alter Tech has long-lasting ill effects, not advertised—no I did not—yes, that is the intention of a love hotel, is it not?—she was an undercover Cleaner, of course I fucking killed her—him, yes—ah, of course, Johnny’s little friend—I enjoyed it—_

The wine glass shatters in Johnny’s fist.

“I’m done,” Doyoung announces. He touches his watch; the recording stops. Doyoung breathes deep; he’ll leave Valhalla with all the parts to make Alter Tech fall after this. Ten, too, should be done coercing enough testimonies from Jiwoo and Mr. Seo’s bio-actor. Only Johnny’s job is left unfinished.

“Why?” Johnny asks, instead. He can’t help it. He remembers his knife, the imprint of its weight by his hip. Doyoung sends him a look, as if to say, _You don’t reason with criminals._

Mr. Seo’s eyes are glazed over. “Why what, son?” He smiles up at Johnny, absolutely dopey; it looks almost like adoration. Johnny hasn’t seen that look since he was ten.

“Why do you like pufferfish so much?” Johnny says eventually. He steps closer. “It tastes… bland. Nothing special about it. Your tongue gets all itchy after. Eugh. You like it a lot?”

Mr. Seo isn’t following—both from Doyoung’s serum and Johnny’s switcheroo. “Pufferfish are very tasty.”

“Good,” Johnny says. “Glad you think so. The meal I cooked you tonight was extra special. Do you know Valhalla breeds extremely rare pufferfish, way above the market-toxicity levels?”

Father is half in, half out of consciousness. Doyoung must have put a higher dose in; anger makes him clumsy like that. Johnny understands. 

“Oh, that?” Johnny tries to follow his father’s clouded gaze, where it’s floated towards the tank behind them, watching a school of blackfin playing with an old, slow turtle. “Those are blackfins. Pretty, right? Do you know they’re natural cleaners? They eat anything that threatens the ecosystem’s balance, like toxins. That’s why we keep puffers in separate tanks.”

Johnny’s phone vibrates. He picks it up and puts it on loudspeaker. Yuta barks, “ _Caught the rat?_ ”

“You can _see_ him,” Johnny replies, smug. Somewhere in Valhalla’s sprawling building, Yuta grins, watching the scene through Johnny’s eyes. “So, what do you think?”

“ _I think our blackfins are very hungry. I mixed up their feeding schedule for weeks, you know._ ”

Understanding blooms slowly on Mr. Seo’s face. The sight makes Johnny’s heart race.

For a second, the whole scene is too much a sweet reverie. All the slots fall into place. Like the ghost-weight of a knife in Johnny’s hand. Mark’s choppy laugh echoes behind him. 

“Don’t you want to know his last words?” Mr. Seo says, and Johnny crashes down from his cloud.

If he wants to, Doyoung can stop him right now; out of all of them, he’s the one with the government badge, the gun. But he doesn’t. Johnny’s blood roils, rapturous. Irene’s voice carries a cresting ballad to their ears.

“Yuta-san, you’re at Control, right?”

Mr. Seo says, “He begged for you—“

“ _Yep. Shut that fucker up already, will you?_ ”

“—kept calling your name. _Johnny_. _Where’s Johnny-hyung_ —“

“Beside the suction pump, there’s an emergency hatch.”

“ _Found it—yeah?_ ”

“But you were too late, weren’t you?”

Johnny unsheathes his knife and hurls it—it flies past Mr. Seo’s head, then embeds itself into the glass tank; it barely cracks the surface, but it’s enough to make a small dent. The whole tank shimmers a soft red. Somewhere, in the control room, Yuta’s dashboard warns him: _Foreign Intruder. Open Tank Exit Hatch?_

Johnny grabs his father by the lapels and drags him in front of the aquarium, depositing him in a heap of limbs. Mr. Seo is laughing now. “You should’ve heard him—the way he begged—“

Yuta is Johnny’s best guy for a reason. He pulls the lever, before Johnny can tell him to. The hatch unlocks beneath Mr. Seo’s knees, swallowing him up and closing behind him, leaving a leather shoe. A scream is submerged forever. As a hundred blackfin tails dart towards the intruder, coalescing like a ball, a dusty red cloud blooms in the water. 

Johnny shuts his eyes and breathes, like a salve spread over him.

🐟

Doyoung is nothing if not thorough. He dials the setting on his gun from _Stun_ to _Clean,_ and with eerie fastidiousness wipes Jiwoo, the traumatized bio-actor, the head chef and the rest of his staff whom Ten threatened to the _stay the fuck down or I’ll kebab you next_. He resets their last memory and plays it on loop, until each of them wobble disoriented out the door and make their way home into the technicolor night. 

“Doyoung,” Johnny says when its over. He scratches his neck. “I just wanted to say thank—“

“I’m not doing this for you,” Doyoung snaps. Brushing glass from his pants, he straightens and retrieves a wrapped gift from inside his coat, which he deposits into Johnny’s hands without making eye contact. “You can tell him it’s from you. It’s a real fountain pen. Authentic.” He clears his throat, twice. Pink climbs into his neck. A gleeful shriek from two tables away breaks the spell, and Doyoung licks his lips, pulls down his cap, says, “Well,” and walks away, disappearing into the late evening crowd.

“I’ll tell him you said hi,” Johnny calls out, waving the gift. He sighs. Damn Cleaners.

For the umpteenth time, his phone buzzes.

🐟

The smell of fish guts is tougher to rid than he initially thought. Johnny’s weighing the pros and cons of dousing his hands in Ten’s awful cologne when the voice arrives, rough around the edges like a real dream. “There you are, hyung! This place is like— _mad_ epic. It’s like I’m inside a coliseum!”

Mark’s grinning down at him. He’s wearing a leather jacket over a white tee, the kind of get up Johnny had to promise was _alright_ to wear, even in a snooty, luxury hotel like Valhalla. Johnny stands from his seat so fast he nearly knocks over his water. 

“Hey—“

Mark startles at the kiss; Johnny tugs Mark’s chin up, deepening it, thumb ghosting over the soft, translucent scar beneath Mark’s eye. And then, as if sensing the _pingpingping_ on Mark’s PDA limit, he pulls away, but not before smooching his cheek. 

“What’s up, my man,” Johnny greets, sitting down himself. He pats the table. “Well—sit down!” Mark splutters but follows suit, rattled, with an _o-oi, okay… I guess._

Johnny continues brightly, “Anyway, you were saying?”

“Me? Was I talking? Oh y-yeah.” Mark takes a moment to absorb the atmosphere. All the lights are brighter in his big eyes—a brimming aquarium on its own. “This is place is—it’s gorgeous, hyung. And _expensive,”_ he whispers, sneaking a peek at the menu. Johnny laughs at the face he makes. “What the hell. To be honest, I thought you were pulling my leg there, when you told me to meet you at this place. But like—it’s nice.”

“ _Just_ nice?”

Mark swats his arm. “More than nice! You know what I mean. I—I just like spending time with you.” He studies his fork with newfound interest. “We don’t do dates much anymore, which I get, you know—of course. After the uh—yeah.”

_The accident_ , Mark means to say. Johnny’s throat closes like a fist. 

“Yeah,” Johnny echoes. “We don’t, do we?” and that’s the most he’ll ever say. In Mark’s head, he’s had two months of physical therapy after surviving a quake in the middle of Old Seoul’s shopping district; after, his paranoid boyfriend Johnny begs him to stay behind doors. _Don’t move. Don’t leave the house without messaging first._ Mark does it all, for Johnny’s sake. It’s a fabricated narrative of Johnny and Doyoung’s own making, and Johnny will let Mark tell himself this until the lie unravels and eats its own tail. For now, there’s this—

“Kiddie watermelon shake, for the baby,” Ten announces, to Mark’s chagrin. The straw is fluorescent blue with two loop-de-loops.

“I ordered a _regular_ watermelon shake!” Mark whines. Ten dances out of Mark’s feeble uppercut, ruffling his hair. 

“Relax, kid.” Ten winks. “It’s on the house. And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you order off the kid’s menu.” Mark squawks like a newborn bird. 

“Wassup,” Johnny greets Ten, who mirrors his smile and knocks their fists together. 

“Hey yourself, Johnny. Enjoy your date lovebirds—god knows you deserve it.” Then he sweeps into an exaggerated bow and leaves.

“Ten-hyung’s a menace. He’s teasing me more than usual,” Mark pouts. But he takes a sip of his shake anyway and hums approvingly. “Yo! Yo, that’s _fresh_. Taste it—right?”

Watching Mark talk is second-nature; Johnny doesn’t realize he’s checked out until Mark snaps his fingers under his nose.

“Earth to Johnny? Mayday, mayday—I think I’ve lost him,” Mark says. The smile free-falls off his face in record time. He reaches over the table and circles Johnny’s wrist. “Hyung? Hey. You’re doing it again.”

Johnny blinks. “Doing what?”

“Daydreaming. In front of your _date_.”

Mark’s smirking at him now. Grief has muddled up the memory of Mark’s grin so much that the heat of it doesn’t hit him until he feels Mark’s foot nudging his ankle. Slowly, Johnny’s mouth curves into a sickle-smile. In return, he holds Mark’s wrist, pulling it forward so he can press a slow kiss to his knuckles. A sigh escapes Mark’s mouth. 

“Sorry—yeah. That wasn’t very cool of me, was it? I’m just…” There’s only one decent way to go about this: he can bring out Doyoung’s gift right now. It’s right there, in his bag. But Johnny’s selfish—his one fatal flaw, the reason why they’re here to begin with. Selfish, selfish, selfish—there’s proof it here too, teeth marks on the skin of Mark’s wrist that he himself had left there last night, trying to muffle his own gasps. Johnny had seen the flyer in Mark’s backpack, and he’d tried to keep the terrible gale in his throat from overflowing when he asked, “Hey Mark, why do you have this?” and he’d watched the slow chipping away of Mark’s smile while he stood at the doorway. “That’s—it’s nothing, hyung, just—“ What words would make it alright? To have a timeline where Mark kept a Restructuration flyer in his bag, “just in case.” Mark was talking, but the words were underwater: “It’s just—I’ve been thinking a lot about why you don’t—don’t _touch_ me anymore. We haven’t been the same, since the accident. I thought, m-maybe you don’t like how I look anymore—is that it? Maybe, if—I could just get a few fixes done, I don’t know—get the scarring out from my—“ and Johnny had torn up the flyer into a thousand unsalvageable pieces in silence, right then and there. And before Mark could speak again he’d kissed him—a kiss of no tomorrow, nowhere else to bury the scream but in Mark’s own trembling lips. For the first time in months—weeks for Mark—they touched each other, trembling and afraid. Mark moving against him like a tidal wave, dark and greedy, unspooling everywhere—Johnny moved with him, climbing each crest, his chest curved across Mark’s undulating back, as Mark’s tears darkened the pillow. _The body remembers_. And maybe Mark will, eventually, but for now, it will recall this, and only this.  If Johnny had to keep reminding him, then so be it.

_“…it’s just?”_ Mark eggs him on.

Johnny kisses Mark’s wrist. “Thinking about how lucky I am. You know I can’t pay attention when you’re sitting right there, babe.”

Mark rolls his eyes. He pulls his own hand back, cheeks bright. “I’m only letting you off because you’re paying. Pay _attention_ , hyung.” He leans back. And then his mouths drops in an O. “Yo, hyung—“ he cries, pointing beside them, “look—it’s a _watch_!”

There it is, like a ghost—floating along with a swarm of jellyfish. Johnny grins; _someone_ missed a spot. He files this as gloating material for use against Doyoung later.

“ _Whoa_ , yeah,” Johnny says, brow furrowing. “How’d that get there?”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [twt!](https://twitter.com/prodjohnmark/status/1260014435025842177)


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